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Weekly Contest #43
My father was not an evil man, or so I told myself every night before shutting my eyes. Down in the humid and feverish cell I visited him. Twice during the working days and every day of the weekend, hoping that at some point he would shine some light into the truth of his last voyage. I was prepared to receive anything, from sinister and violent to unlikely and perhaps impossible. But it was futile, his lips were sealed and no noise ever came from his throat. In the corners of the cell he would hide, afraid to even hear my voice or look at m...
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